


the beauty of their dreams

by ephemeralblossom



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/F, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-23 18:15:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8337778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralblossom/pseuds/ephemeralblossom
Summary: Ainsley Hayes is not often lost for words.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariestess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariestess/gifts).



> Dear ariestess: When I saw "sex toys" in your "Big Yes-Yes Plots," I knew this was going to be fun. :) I hope you enjoy reading this ficlet as much as I enjoyed writing it! ♥

Ainsley Hayes is not often lost for words. 

As she stares into C.J.’s bedside drawer, however, she finds that there is very little that comes to mind; besides, of course, the immediate response of “what the _fuck_ ,” which seems both coarse and uncharitable, given that she is in C.J.’s apartment, indeed bedroom, indeed her very bed, and if Ainsley’s father has taught her not to be coarse, her mother has taught her not to be uncharitable. (Neither instruction has wholly taken, but Ainsley does try. Usually. Although being in politics does tend to have the effect of lowering one’s standards, particularly in private. Ainsley’s reactions to certain attempts at political spin on the nightly news have been at times both coarse and uncharitable. That hasn’t changed just because she now works for the government which is often behind those sorry attempts at spin, either.)

“What’s holding things up?” C.J. asks, the question throaty and amused. 

Ainsley has slept with C.J. three times now, to use the delicate expression for a (deliciously) indelicate act. Once was at Ainsley’s, after a late-night “brainstorming and bitching” session (C.J.’s term, not Ainsley’s!) turned into something more. Once was late at night in C.J.’s office, when a stolen kiss on the sofa turned into more. (Dangerous, even with a locked door, and yet Ainsley loved every moment of it.) And this makes three.

Three times in, she’s finding that continued exposure to that voice of C.J.’s does not breed contempt. She feels the shivers of arousal go down her spine.

“Not that I am judging in any way,” she says, because it’s essential to be polite when you are a guest in somebody’s home, let alone their bed – although she really actually _is_ judging, of course – “but why do you have an Eleanor Roosevelt sex toy?”

“Ah,” C.J. says, and there’s a laugh in her voice. “I forgot Eleanor was in there.”

“I was only looking for a blindfold,” Ainsley reminds her. She likes the idea of C.J. in a blindfold, lying amidst her pillows like a tall beautiful goddess, just waiting for Ainsley to make her shiver and shudder and moan. Ainsley is very good with her mouth, in more ways than one.

C.J. moves, her hand alighting on Ainsley’s hip, raising goosebumps. “Well,” she says, leaning up so that her breath ghosts across Ainsley’s shoulder, “you found Eleanor.”

If Ainsley wasn’t literally gazing at a sex toy of the longest-serving First Lady, she might have been swept away by the husk in C.J.’s voice, the shivery graze of her fingers. C.J. is everything that attracts Ainsley, tall and beautiful and funny and smart; Ainsley knew the moment she met her that she was in trouble. Poor Sam Seaborn still thinks he has a chance, no matter how much Ainsley tries to let him down gently, but there has only ever been one West Wing staffer to catch Ainsley’s eye.

But be that as it may, she _is_ gazing down at a sex toy of the longest-serving First Lady, and some things are too important to save for later. 

“Where did you even _find_ her?” she asks. 

C.J. sits back on her heels. “Well,” she says, reaching into the drawer and picking up Eleanor, rolling her between her fingers, “there are places, if you know where to look.”

Places where you can get sex toys of political figures. Ainsley knew there were some perverted people out there, but she never guessed it went this far. 

She finds that she loves it. 

“I wonder if you can get one of Ayn Rand,” she says, thoughtfully.

C.J. laughs. Her eyes sparkle when she laughs. Ainsley thinks she could lose hours watching C.J. laugh, and never grow tired of it. She’s surprised nobody in the White House has figured it out yet; she feels like her thoughts must be emblazoned across her face in big bold letters, _Ainsley Hayes is hot for C.J. Cregg_ , because C.J. makes her go weak at the knees just by entering a room. She’s so charismatic, and so smart, and so funny. They’re wasting her in the Press Secretary job. Oh, she’s the best they’ll ever have, but she could do so much more.

(And of course it’s not just C.J.’s unique mixture of competence, charisma, and flair that attracts Ainsley. She’s wanted into C.J.’s pants, to put it crudely, since the day she met her.)

“I’m sure you can get one of Ayn Rand,” C.J. says, setting Eleanor down on the bedside table and leaning down to kiss Ainsley.

C.J.’s kisses are as heady as her attention, full and intent and intoxicating. Ainsley kisses her back with singleminded purpose, pulling her closer, sliding a hand into her hair. C.J.’s kisses make Ainsley melt, make her fly, make her forget her own name…

“But you’ll have to get her for yourself,” C.J. says, when they break apart. “I’ll buy you flowers, but I draw the line at Ayn Rand.”

“You’ve never bought me flowers,” Ainsley says, then flushes. She didn’t mean to say that, it just slipped out; but C.J. never _has_ bought her flowers. She’d remember that. 

“Well,” C.J. says, her eyes somehow managing to be both soft and sparkling, “maybe I’ll have to start.”

All her life, Ainsley’s been told what not to do: don’t date a co-worker (that never ends well), don’t date a liberal (they’re heathens with no morals who want to bankrupt the Republic), and don’t date women (that last one usually going unsaid but no less real). 

But Ainsley trusts her own brains and her own heart. She trusted them when she took the job at the White House. She trusted them when she kissed C.J. against her refrigerator a month ago, unromantic and yet somehow perfect. She trusts them every day, serving her country to the utmost of her ability. She may have set aside some of the guidelines she was brought up with, but she will always heed the underlining foundation: _do your best and serve your country_. The rest is details.

Now she slips a leg over C.J.’s, pressing close and leaning in. “I still need to find that blindfold,” she breathes against C.J.’s lips, her hand on C.J.’s breast.

C.J. makes a noise of agreement, but she doesn’t let go.

Ainsley lowers her head to press a kiss to C.J.’s collarbone, and C.J. shudders beneath her, warm and intoxicating.

There are so many things Ainsley wants in life. She wants to serve her country. She wants to make her family proud. She wants to rise, and rise far; her ambition has driven her at a breakneck pace, and she has no intention of stopping. She is young and brilliant, and she has beauty and charisma – all of which can help her. Her self-belief is unshakeable.

Loving women could put a stop to Ainsley’s career in the Republican Party, this she knows. But here in C.J.’s arms, she knows that she wants this too; if she has to change the entire Party to make it possible for a young Republican superstar to be a lesbian, she will.

“C.J.,” she says, and C.J. looks up; but finding no words, Ainsley kisses her instead.

***

There are flowers on Ainsley’s desk the next Monday.

Everyone thinks they came from Sam; Ainsley smiles mysteriously.

For Christmas, she gets C.J. a framed photograph of Eleanor Roosevelt. No one understands why C.J. laughs for five minutes straight. 

But Ainsley does.


End file.
